


White Night

by Barcardivodka



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Badass Illya, Gadgets, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Solo!whump, Whump, implied bisexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 22:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7659007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barcardivodka/pseuds/Barcardivodka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The CIA decide it's time Solo is taught a brutal lesson in loyalty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Night

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt requested by Tamuril2
> 
> This is a companion piece to 'Lucy in the Sky of Diamonds' but is a standalone story. 
> 
> As always, with grateful thanks to my beta Jay - I have since changed and mess around with the story and all mistakes and errors are mine.

Napoleon Solo tried to roll with the punch aimed at his jaw, but with his left eye swelling fast; it was difficult to gauge the angle and speed of the fist coming towards him. The impact snapped his head to the right, his teeth cutting into the soft inner flesh of his cheek. His mouth filled with blood.

He spat the gore from his mouth, his bruised, swollen lips twisting into a misshapen smile as the blob of saliva and blood landed on his tormentor’s cheap brown shoes. In fact, everything about Agent Thompson was cheap. From his aforementioned inexpensive shoes to his off-the-rack, ill-fitting unfashionable brown suit. Solo knew for a fact that the CIA paid their agents enough to afford something more stylish than polyester shirts. Granted they didn’t pay enough for their employees to afford to buy Givenchy, like the beautiful grey plaid tweed two-piece that Solo wore, although it was ruined now. Torn and stained with blood. He squinted down at his shoes pleased to see his highly polished cordovan wingtip brogues had somehow managed to avoid being scuffed. He grunted with pain as Thompson took revenge over the blood stained shoe with two hard punches to Solo’s stomach.

Solo wished that he hadn’t been quite so thorough in removing Illya’s trackers this morning. The Russian really was quite the electronic genius and with free range in the U.N.C.L.E labs had continually improved upon his own designs, making them smaller and more innocuous with each new version. If it wasn’t for the bug detectors that Illya periodically gave to himself and Gaby to test, Solo would have failed to find over half of the devices. It did, however, mean that neither Illya nor Gaby would have any idea where to find him. Although he was loath to admit it, he really didn’t think he could extract himself from the situation without some timely intervention from his partners.

He was tied very securely to a very sturdy metal frame chair. He could, of course, overbalance the chair, but all he would achieve would be a painful meeting with the hideously filthy concrete floor. Solo was certain he was missing some other way of liberating himself, but with all the punches to his face and stomach things had started to take on a muffled, hazy feel. He blinked as Thompson suddenly loomed in front of him and he had to fight the urge to flinch away.

“Now we’ve softened you up a bit,” Thompson smiled without elaborating any further, which in Solo’s considered opinion was extremely rude. He really did want to know what they planned to do to him next. Although he had a bad feeling that he really wasn’t going to like it very much. He knew they wouldn’t kill him. The purpose of this meeting was to teach Solo his place. What was it Illya had said the first, no, the second time they met? Ah, yes, something to do with Solo’s balls being at the end of a very long leash. Except now, he was being pulled to heel with a very cruel tug on the hypothetical leash.

He frowned as he suddenly became aware of Thompson again and looked down in mounting horror as the brute cut away the sleeve of his jacket and shirt from his right arm.

“This suit costs more than your entire wardrobe!” he protested, but was met only with an angry scowl.

“Not to worry, Mr Solo. Once we’ve finished with you, you’ll be selling off everything you own just to feed your new addiction,” a new voice chimed in.

Solo turned his head to bring the newcomer into his limited line of vision. Marsden! He knew he’d recognised the voice. Marsden had slightly better fashion sense than Thompson, but had no panache or charisma to carry off a more expensive look. Solo shook his head in an attempt to clear it. The last punch to his jaw had certainly rung his bell. With a glare at Marsden, Solo turned back to stare down at his bare arm and tried to figure out what was going on. Addiction? Something to do with addiction. Solo had no addictions. He freely admitted he had many, many vices. Chief among them was his love of women and the physical delights that they could be charmed into sharing. Although he was a great purveyor of women, he had also sampled the forbidden fruit of his own gender. Such liaisons were few and far between. Being caught in such an act would at best lead to ridicule and derision by the rest of society, and at worse it could lead to a lengthy prison sentence. If not for the act of homosexuality, then some trumped up charge that the CIA would have no trouble in presenting evidence for. Solo would be made to pay dearly for the CIA losing the use of his skills due to his ‘perversion.’ He could never quite understand how someone could suddenly become a pariah due to being outed as homosexual. Friends and family instantly shunning them in shame and disgust, even though they had been considered a good neighbour until that moment.  

Marsden came into view carrying a syringe, with a thin hypodermic needle attached and everything suddenly became very clear in Solo’s mind.

“No!” Solo tugged as hard as he could against his bounds as he frantically tried to free himself.

“I’m told it only takes a couple of injections to become addicted to heroin,” Marsden stated. “By the time we let you go, you’ll do anything for your next fix.” He added coldly.

“Marsden, this is madness. What use will I be if I’m a drug addict? Sanders wouldn’t have sanctioned this.” Solo pleaded in desperation. Why the hell did he choose this morning to clear out all of Illya’s bugs? They’d been there for weeks until Illya had given him the updated detector last night.

“What use are you to us now?” Marsden shot back. “Knowingly associating with a communist and a damn KGB officer to boot? You’re a goddamn traitor, Solo.”

As Marsden grabbed his bare arm there was a loud crash from outside the room they were in. Solo hadn’t been able to ascertain much about where he had been brought to after being ambushed in an alleyway near Soho in London. When he’d regained consciousness he’d already been tied to the chair. What he had been able to establish was that the room was small. The walls were made from bare red brick with a wide doorway in the wall that Solo faced. It had a high ceiling and was lit by four electric light bulbs that hung from long electrical cords from the ceiling. There was no natural light and shadows hugged the corners of the room. The floor was concrete, but further into the room it was stained black, as were the sides of the walls. Solo’s best guess was that he was being held in an old Victorian coal bunker. There was probably a chute of some kind in the wall behind him which coal would have been channelled through. It all lead to Solo concluding that he was somewhere near the docks on the south side of the river.

There was another crash and the door suddenly opened as a tall, slender figure quickly slid into the room and slammed the door shut.

“Where’s the lock? Where’s the damn lock!” the new arrival asked with rising panic, as his hands scrambled to find some sort of catch that would secure the door against whatever was on the other side of it.

“ What the hell is going on, Powell?” Marsden barked out. Thompson pulled his gun free from its holster and moved towards the door.

“It’s the fucking commie.” Powell turned to face them putting his back against the door in the vain hope that he had the strength to keep it closed. “It’s already taken out Shaw and Franks.”

“He really doesn’t like being referred to as ‘it’,” Solo piped in. “Trust me, I know.”

“What the hell is he doing here? How did he find us?” Marsden looked over at Thompson. “Did you check for trackers?”

“Of course I did! He was clean.” Thompson snapped back in indignation.

“Peril really is a whiz with electronics,” Solo said helpfully. He smiled as the three men glared at him, ignoring the pain from his battered face. He had no idea how Illya had found him, but relief flooded through him knowing that he, and quite possibly Gaby, were close by, saving him from an appalling fate. He glanced over at Marsden and the syringe the other man still held. Solo had to force himself to keep smiling mockingly at the men as he fought to keep a shudder from ripping through his battered frame.

“Looks like we’re gonna be able to get rid of at least one commie bastard,” Marsden said as he tossed the syringe onto what Solo assumed was a table behind his line of vision, and with his hands now free un-holstered his gun.  “Powell, get over here. As soon he tries to get in the room, we’ll take him out.” Marsden turned to look at Solo. “Then we’ll deal you with.” He promised menacingly.

The three men fanned out, weapons trained on the door, and waited.

Anxiety curled hard and cold in the pit of Solo’s stomach as he watched the door waiting for it to be flung open. He knew Perl would have realised that he’d lost any element of surprise and that the door, the only way into the room, would now be covered. To enter would be suicide. But if Illya’s temper had taken control of him, the man would lose all reasoning and barge through the door with the ferocity of a wounded bear. He might take down one of the CIA agents, but he would never get all three before being killed. Fear and anguish stabbed at Solo’s heart. He could only hope that Illya was with Gaby – the young woman had a miraculous calming effect on the Russian.

The seconds ticked away into minutes as the tense silence grew. Solo tried to rotate his wrists in an attempt to loosen the ropes, but all he was currently achieving was to rub his skin raw. There was suddenly a soft whooshing sound, followed by a louder thump from behind Solo. He tried to turn his head to see what had caused the noise, as did Thompson, Powell and Marsden.

Three low pings, one after the other, filled the air and the three men fell lifeless to the floor. There was a rustle of movement and Illya stepped into view. He was covered in black coal dust. Solo let out a chuckle that was more relief than humour. The devious Russian had taken out Shaw and Franks, letting Powell escape into the room where he would warn the other three agents, turning their attention to the door and the rampaging KGB agent on the other side of it. Only Illya had doubled back and gained entrance through the coal chute, giving him back the element of surprise to devastating effect.

“You okay, Cowboy?” Illya asked giving Solo a quick glance as he moved over to the downed men to check if they were…

“Dead?” Solo queried. As much as he disliked what they had done to him, and about to do to him, they were fellow CIA agents and undoubtedly obeying orders. Death was a high price to pay for being loyal.

Illya shook his head. “Knock out darts. Will be unconscious for maybe next eight, twelve hours.” He pulled out a two-way radio from his jacket. “All clear,” he said into it. Then, from seemingly nowhere, he pulled out a large, long bladed knife.

“This is becoming quite the habit,” Solo had long since lost count of the amount of times they had saved each other from similar situations.

“This is why I bug you,” Illya replied as he cut through the ropes with ease. Solo went to rub his right wrist only to hiss with pain as the raw, abraded skin protested the movement.

“How did you find me? I gave you back all your trackers this morning?”

“You missed one.”

The door was swung open and Gaby came through shuffling backwards as she dragged a body across the floor. Illya immediately went to help her. Solo stared in surprise as Waverly came through in the same manner dragging another body.

“Sir!”

“Ah, Solo. There you are, and all in one piece,” he paused as he catalogued Solo’s injuries, “more or less. Excellent.” The Englishman smiled, then crouched down and started going through the unconscious mens pockets.

Solo looked at Illya then nodded towards Waverly, a puzzled frown marring his features.

“He was in office when I … Gaby became worried about you.” Illya explained. Solo smiled as Gaby, stood behind Illya, rolled her eyes in exasperation. Illya turned and gave the now innocent looking Gaby a suspicious glare.

“All carrying official ID,” Waverly announced. “I will be very interested in what their superiors have to say about this little caper.” His tone had taken on a dangerous edge. One that Gaby, Illya and Solo knew very well. Many fell for Waverly’s affable, polite manner, dismissing him as someone who had attained his position by privilege and nepotism.  The true Waverly was a very dangerous, very intelligent man – those who crossed him or his organisation soon learned how very hazardous he was to their personal well-being and careers.

When Illya had been roughly treated by his own agency, Waverly had skilfully used the incident to unclip Illya’s leash from his KGB masters. Waverly had brokered a deal that ensured the Russian’s continued employment with U.N.C.L.E with no loss in citizenship or status within the KGB. It was those two things Illya had constantly worried over as his need to prove his loyalty to both organisations put him on a perilous path to self-destruction. Illya had been much more pleasant to work with since he only had to contend with the demands of one superior.

Solo let the fledgling flicker of hope grow that Waverly would take this opportunity to do the same for him. To free him from the CIA’s control and allow him to work alongside Gaby and Illya without Sanders breathing down his neck.

Never one to miss an opening he stood up with the intention of telling Waverly to negotiate his release from the CIA but promptly sat down again as the world tilted in an alarming fashion.

“Cowboy?”

“I’m okay, Peril. Just stood up too fast.”

“Perhaps you would be so kind as to escort Solo to the medical unit at headquarters for a check-up Kuryakin,” Waverly ordered, in his usual ‘I’ve made it sound like a suggestion, but don’t make the mistake of treating it as such’ manner. “Gaby and I will arrange to have these chaps taken to a more secure location. I’m sure the CIA would like them back – at some point.”

Solo cautiously stood up again, Illya’s firm grip on his elbow stopped him from falling over as he swayed for a few seconds before his equilibrium reluctantly kicked in.

“Sir, I wonder if you could take this opportunity to …” Solo paused as Waverly smiled and gave a short nod of acknowledgement. No matter how hard Solo attempted to cover his true self, Waverly could always see through every deception. The older man could read him like a book, and on this occasion Solo was very glad he could.

“We’ll talk more tomorrow, Solo, once you’ve had a chance to rest,” Waverly promised, “then I’ll have a word with Adrian.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Illya helped to propel him forward and out of the small room and into a cavernous old warehouse; he could make out the sound of fast running water.

“We’re by the river?” he queried as they made their way slowly through the warehouse.

Illya nodded, confirming Solo’s assessment about where he had been taken.

“Which tracker did I miss?” Solo queried again.

“Tie pin.”

Solo stopped walking and looked down at the flat, folded piece of metal attached to his stained tie; a large, but not overly ostentatious sapphire was set into the middle of the pin.

“You can’t possibly have made the tracker that small?” he exclaimed. He pulled the pin from his tie and examined it as best he could with only one working eye.

Illya stood silently next to him looking very pleased with himself.

“Peril, this is incredible.” Solo would later blame the mild concussion he’d received from the beating he’d taken for his uncensored praise of the Russian’s work.

“The range is not good. Only half a mile. But I have already made better one.”

“How much better?”

“You will see.”

“What do you mean, ‘you will see’?” Solo was obliged to start walking again as Illya pulled him along by his elbow.

“You will see,” Illya repeated. “I don’t think your new look will make fashion magazines.” He added.

Solo unwittingly fell into his trap of redirection and looked in dismay at his bare right arm. “The barbarians,” he muttered.

“Tie doesn’t match. Not good combination.”

“It doesn’t have to match,” Solo replied with a smile, remembering a conversation that seemed so long ago now. They had saved the world countless time since then and no one would ever know all that U.N.C.L.E had done to keep them safe. What he, Illya and Gaby had gone through to make sure the innocent could sleep peacefully at night.

“It does if you are wearing Givenchy.” Illya had the unusual habit of smiling with his eyes, while maintaining a sober expression. It had thrown Solo at first, thinking the Russian completely humourless. He had quickly learned otherwise. Illya rarely smiled with his mouth and nearly all those occasions were directed at Gaby. Solo smiled as he turned his head to look at Illya. “Although the tie does distract from missing sleeve.”

“I didn’t cut it off!” Solo exclaimed in exasperation.

Illya harrumphed in mock disbelief. Solo tried to turn his body and maintain a forward motion so that he could take umbrage at Illya’s harrumphing. Unfortunately, his body had finally had enough and withdrew its support to Solo’s knees. He would have had a painfully landing except for Illya’s quick reflexes that kept him upright. With one arm securely around his waist Illya grabbed one of the large wooden cable reels that littered the warehouse floor and turned it upright against one of the support columns.

“Sit.” He commanded. Solo gratefully sat on the reel and leaned his back against the column. “I will fetch car. I should be able to clear a path to drive it to here. You stay.” And with that he strode off moving reels and other debris out of his way to ensure he could get the car through without any hindrance.

Solo gently leaned his head back and closed his good eye, listening to the noise Illya was making as he threw objects out of his way. A few years ago Solo worked alone. He was rarely partnered with other agents for a whole mission. He would call others in when a plan required it – like Jones and Smith when he got Gaby across the wall. But ultimately he was used to working to his own agenda to get the desired results.

He’d never considered himself a team player.

But then, he mused, it depended on the other members of the team. Players who complimented your skills with their own unique set. A team that looked out for you, watched your back, would improvise to keep a mission intact. Would discover your weaknesses and not use them against you, but would ensure that they were taken into consideration when assessing a job.

A team made up of such different personalities and upbringings that they really shouldn’t have been able to work together. But somehow they did.

The thought of losing either of them, to a bullet or the whim of the KGB, hurt beyond measure.

Solo couldn’t imagine Illya or Gaby turning on him like members of his own agency had done today. Although both could be ruthless and Illya could be downright murderous, he just couldn’t envisage them be as cruel as to pump him full of narcotics just to watch him shake with need and desperation for another fix. To inflict a life changing punishment on him because he had learned to become a good team player.

No. Gaby and Illya would never do that. No matter what Solo did. They would walk away and leave him. To fester in a loneliness of his own making. But they wouldn’t destroy him; they would leave him with room to redeem himself.

Solo jerked as his shoulder was gently shaken. He opened his good eye to see Illya looking down at him with concern. Waverly’s Jaguar car purred quietly a few feet away. Solo closed his eye again. He didn’t have the strength or inclination to move. He seemed to float for a moment before being settled onto something soft.

“You rest, Cowboy.” Illya rumbled.

“Nice of Waverley to let you borrow his car.“ Solo murmured.

“‘Borrowed’ is good word, I like this.  Gaby will give Waverly lift when he sees his car is not where he left it.  Try not to bleed too much on upholstery.”  Solo chuckled, relaxing even more as he realized that no matter what,  Illya would get them to where they were meant to be going. He allowed himself to succumb to the exhaustion that was insistently tugging at him, knowing that he was finally safe and watched over by a trusted and loyal partner.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Jefferson Airplane song.


End file.
